


Wedding Goggles

by nervoussis



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Bisexual Steve Harrington, First Kiss, Gay Billy Hargrove, Hopeless Romantic Steve Harrington, Inspired by How I Met Your Mother, Light Angst, M/M, Mutual Pining, Panic Attacks, Ruined Date, Second Thoughts, Soft Billy Hargrove, flat tire
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-13
Updated: 2021-02-13
Packaged: 2021-03-16 22:16:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28838412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nervoussis/pseuds/nervoussis
Summary: Valentines Day, 1993 begins and ends exactly the way Steve thought it would: on the couch with Billy, a joint and a pint of ale passing like a cloud between them as they watch whatever slasher flick is playing on pay-per-view.The stuff in the middle, though, changes everything.(or) the one where Billy doesn't know how to change a flat tire.
Relationships: Billy Hargrove/Original Male Character(s), Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington, Steve Harrington/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 22
Kudos: 130
Collections: Harringrove Heart-On (2021)





	Wedding Goggles

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Valentines Day!
> 
> This is a healthy dose of angst inspired by How I Met Your Mother. Special thanks to the Smut Cave for including me in this collection. You guys uplift me when I feel most like sinking through the earth, and I can't sing your praises enough. An incredible group of artists, a wonderful gang of friends, thank you for letting me be a part of something like this.

Steve's on a terrible first date when the phone rings.

And, okay.

They're halfway through the appetizers so he doesn't feel too bad about holding up his finger and muttering, "I should probably take this," When Billy's name flashes incessantly across the screen.

His date smiles softly, "Go ahead." She says. He feels grateful that Mary Elizabeth is so understanding, and maybe if they had anything in common _at all,_ things would be different.

It's not like Steve dislikes her in the conventional sense. Mary Elizabeth is a nice girl who smells of boiled potatoes and talks too much about her puzzle collection, watery gray eyes unblinking and alien-like as they stare right through Steve while he orders three fingers of gin before putting the phone to his ear. 

It's not a good look for a first date.

Not a good look for _Valentines,_ boarding on cynical even, but Steve's succumbing to the pressure of the holiday despite his reluctance to go out in the first place.

Steve and Mary Elizabeth work together.

They have for years, the two of them are considered the perfect teacher/assistant duo at Brooklyn Middle, and like. 

Billy's spending the holiday with his boyfriend.

_Fiancé._

Leaving Steve to his own devices for the first time _ever,_ since they stopped hating each other nine years ago. Billy had offered to take a rain check with Clark, his well-meaning shrink of a boyfriend--

_Fiancé_

\--If Steve didn't want to spend Valentines alone but it didn't feel right. Asking Billy to choose between the love his life and Steve, the most pathetic sack on the planet, seemed like a new level of desperate, even for him.

So when Mary Elizabeth asked if he had plans for the holiday, if he had a special _girl_ in mind for dinner and a movie or something, Steve had to manually pull his thoughts away from Billy and their tradition of slasher flick's and pot to say, alright. McLaren's at seven could work for him.

Even a horrible, rotten, no good, very bad date is better than sitting around in his boxers while nursing a bottle of tequila and wondering if Billy's wearing his red button down tonight or the blue.

Steve hopes for the blue.

If Billy's calling it must be important. The noise of the bar dulls to a weak thrum when the door slams shut behind him. 

"Bills?"

"Hey, Steve. Are you busy right now?"

"Um," Steve says intelligently, sidestepping a woman walking her dog down the street. The little black and white terrier is dressed as Cupid, complete with a little harp collar and everything. Only in New York, man. Steve rolls his eyes. "I guess that depends on your definition of busy."

"Date sucks, I take it?"

Steve can feel Billy's grin in his stomach, beaming onto his own face easily. "Mary Elizabeth is no closer to getting in my pants tonight than she was yesterday."

"C'mon, man, she's been putting on a show these last couple of years, and what, you're too good for her or something?" Billy snorts, light and happy. "Throw the chick a bone, if you know what I mean."

Steve tries his hardest not to face palm. "You're so fuckin' _gross,_ dude."

Billy chuckles and then swears, the sound of a car door slamming echoes through the receiver. In the background Steve can hear water and crickets chirping through the night. His brows knit together, heart clenching with worry.

"Are you on the bridge?" Steve asks, standing up straighter as if to see Billy over the Manhattan skyline.

"No, I'm uh. I'm in Duchess County, I." Billy pulls away from the phone, hand slamming aggressively on something that stings of metal. Like the hood of a car. "Look, man, I have a flat."

Billy sounds on edge in a way Steve's never heard before. If he didn't know any better he'd say Billy sounds _nervous,_ like he's worried about the implications of venturing out of town with Clark on Valentines day.

Billy hates leaving the city unless the forecast calls for snow. Maybe they're off to a bed and breakfast or something--Connecticut or Delaware. A relaxing, sex filled weekend on the lake, the sun on Billy's chest--

So _fucking_ romantic.

It makes Steve want to punch through a wall.

"That's crazy, dude. But why are you calling me?" Steve grits. Being mad at Billy for getting engaged is, like. The farthest thing from cool and Steve's over it, alright? He sniffs. "Doesn't Clark know how to change a tire?"

"Dude knows how to change a tire, alright, it's just." Billy mutters. He's having a hard time spitting it out, which isn't like him at all. "He's, uh."

"What, is he asking the flat to process its feelings in a healthy way instead of acting out?" 

He expects Billy to laugh and tell him to fuck off, like always, except.

Billy doesn't.

He just sighs into the phone and says, "Clark isn't here." Like that somehow makes any sense at fucking _all_.

Steve's belly clenches again with worry and he can tell. From the timbre of Billy's voice and the finality in his words, that this is the end of the conversation.

Steve isn't supposed to ask _why._

Isn't supposed to think it's bizarre that Clark is nowhere to be found when Billy has been spazzing about this date since New Years. Buying formal shirts and modelling them for Steve on Tuesday pizza nights like any variation of your standard button down could be called a revelation.

Billy makes a noise in the back of his throat, barely discernible over the noise on the street and Steve gets it.

He isn't supposed to ask questions, indulge the stone in his belly, or do anything besides rub a hand across his face. Steve looks toward the sky. There's a promise of rain.

He nods. "I'll be there soon, Bills. Hang tight."

\--

Mary Elizabeth throws a drink in his face.

Luckily it's _only_ diet coke and cherry, so it won't _totally_ ruin the white satin blouse Robin got him for Hanukah. He snags a towel from Carl, McLarens' very own grinning bartender, before moving past all the judgmental stares to seethe on the sidewalk. A true New Yorker through and through.

Coke drips cold and relentless down the collar of Steve's shirt, concerned stares from pedestrians somehow making the whole thing worse and and Steve seriously considers stopping at home to change, or tearing his own hair out, or flying directly into the sun, but.

Billy needs him.

Dude's an asshole and a dickwad, one of the great headaches in Steve's life, but the need is there. Dripping like ice cold soda down the back of Steve's neck. Besides, if he doesn't go rescue Billy from the horrors of suburbia he might get eaten by a bear or something.

Steve decides to deal.

It takes twenty minutes to land a ride because it's _Valentines Day_ and it looks like rain. More like snow, on second thought. A dastardly combination of the two.

Steve scrubs at his blouse while traffic picks up again and considers walking to Duchess County when a cab pulls to a stop in front of him. Like the chill has made him visible somehow. Steve slides into the backseat, sticky with coke and anger, to announce that he's headed three hours outside of the city.

The guy fucking _laughs_ at him, like, "That'll cost a pretty penny. Must be a real pretty girl."

And.

Steve hands the man two hundreds and tells him to drive, seeing blue the whole way there.

\--

One ninety dollar cab ride later Steve sees that Billy's wearing his favorite shirt.

The third from a mountain of seafoam green and turquoise which sat, cold and leering, in Steve's apartment not three days ago.

Billy leans against the driver's side door of the Camaro, denim jacket pushed up to his elbows to show off chorded, grease stained forearms. He's staring out over an empty field, moonlight casting a silvery halo overhead. The dust in the air glows white in the darkness, every little yellow flower on Billy's shirt stands out. Like promises of bright summer skies.

Billy looks good. 

Masculine and romantic, and.

Pretty.

Steve isn't entirely sure where all the muck on his arms came from. How the slick of oil paints broad mountain heads against a summer night. Billy seems to be working on his third cigarette, content to wait for his white knight like some sort of rockabilly princess.

The tool kit Steve got him for his birthday last year is nowhere to be found, lug nuts still wound tight on the flat. The trunk of the Camaro has been tossed open, displaying a gaggle of knit blankets that Billy always keeps around for picnics and evenings in the park.

Steve's sat on each of them at least once.

The emergency duffle bag he insisted Billy stash in the trunk is open on the ground next to him, at least four granola wrappers littering the ground below his feet. Steve lets the cab drive off before approaching the Camaro, chuckling to himself.

"See you cracked into our emergency provisions."

Billy turns and assesses Steve with cool blue eyes, tension cracking for just a moment to let the sunshine in. "I dunno how to do this shit. Thought I'd wait it out, since I knew you were coming."

Steve tugs on his jacket sleeves. "I might not have."

And Billy looks at him, like, "Of course you would."

There's something in the air.

Like the eye of a hurricane, encased in one 5 foot 10 bucket of dynamite. Steve knows better than to sneak up on Billy so he waits, watching the way smoke filters from his nose, pink against the dark night sky. 

Billy actually looks happy to see him, Steve realizes with a jolt, and that's when he sees it.

There's blood on Billy's face. 

"What are you doing all the way out here?" Steve asks.

"Thought I'd go for a drive."

"To the middle of nowhere?" Steve looks around them. At barren fields and the thin line of trees which conceals a river somewhere in the distance. There isn't a house or building around for miles. So _not_ their idea of a picturesque scene that Steve checks behind Billy, just to be sure.

"Y'know," Billy says, grinning. "Gotta drive _through_ nowhere to get somewhere."

Steve frowns again, like, "It's Valentines Day." Which should explain the insanity of the situation, but.

Apparently not.

Billy shrugs, leaning back against the Camaro to finish off his cigarette. "Yeah, so? The holiday never meant anything to us before." 

_Us._

Steve joins him, turning his ass against cool metal to look out over a scene from _Little House on the_ _Prairie_. Miniscule clumps of snow pepper the field, a glaring reminder that they should be home, on the couch, watching T.V. and smoking through their third Secret Joint by now. Like every Valentines Day, like always.

Really the pasture reminds Steve of Hawkins.

Of bright summer nights, a pack of Budweiser and Billy on his arm. Shared secrets and the urge to hold on tight, hold on _forever,_ to his ray of stalwart sunshine. Steve bites against a wave of uneasiness in his throat, because.

Something's wrong.

Something's different.

"Well, where _are_ you going?" He asks, noticing for the first time that Billy is shivering and it has nothing to do with the cold.

"On a journey."

"You hate those," He tracks the rise and fall of Billy's chest. "Driving through the countryside? You always say it smells like cow shit--"

Billy sighs hot and heavy, like this whole conversation, like _Steve,_ is putting him behind schedule. "It does smell like cow shit, but that's all a part of the experience."

"You high, or something?" Steve pushes off the Camaro and into Billy's space, ducking his head until he catches those bright blue eyes with his own. He studies the nervous flutter of Billy's eyelashes, the flush across his cheeks.

"No, why would I be?" Billy snorts, fists pushing against Steve's chest just on the wrong side of horsing around, like.

He means it or something.

Steve pretends not to notice the sting. "You sound like a yuppie."

"That's _hippie,_ genius." Billy's tongue flicks out, wriggling back and forth like a snake. It's supposed to be teasing, Steve thinks, maybe even a little flirtatious but it falls flat in all the ways that matter. Billy stamps on his cigarette with a grunt. "So what if I was high? Haven't sparked it in four hundred _fucking_ years, wouldn't hurt anything."

Under the light of the full moon, the blood on Billy's cheek looks like oil. Maybe chocolate syrup if Steve didn't know any better--if monster's weren't also men dressed in stylish suits, men who hate fun and who are also engaged to his best friend.

Men who work tirelessly to remodel the things they claim to love.

Steve shuffles on his feet. "Where's Clark?" He asks. The words tumble out before Steve can reel them back in, flitting through the air to land like a knife in Billy's throat.

He turns cool, serious eyes on Steve before swallowing. Shrugging his shoulders.

"You hate the guy for two years and now all of sudden he's all you wanna talk about."

"Look, I--"

"Does it fucking _matter,_ Steve?" Billy gets up in his face, chest to chest, like. How it was before. _Nine years_ before, when something was missing. "I'm here. With you. Isn't that what you wanted?"

Steve opens his mouth only to let it fall shut against sharp, obsessive thoughts. Not fully getting it. 

Whatever's happening, it's.

The farthest thing from treading easy waters. Steve's brain moves at 1/4 speed when it's most important that he figure shit out. Like when the world is ending, or the people he loves are in danger, but this? 

Billy stares at him with thick, watery eyes. Chest heaving, hands shaking and t's like watching him walk out onto a frozen river only to have the ice crumble beneath his feet.

"What happened?" Steve whispers, and. Billy just shakes his head. 

His eyes reflect the light of the moon, glittering like a bag of broken glass. 

Steve reaches for him, like. He can stop the current from carrying him off. 

Billy slaps his hand away. "God, don't be so fucking--"

"Come on, you can. You can _talk_ to me, Billy, you know that right?"

Billy turns away, toward the field. "I don't want to talk about it."

"Why not?"

"Because, Steve." Billy snarls, some of that old fire igniting between the two of them. Steve wills himself not to push back. "It's my shit and I don't want to talk about it, alright? So just fucking drop it. Let it go and change my fucking tire."

Steve knows it's all show.

Smoke and mirrors, heavy on the mist and broken glass, so he presses closer. Testing the heat of the flame.

"Did he hurt you?"

Billy turns on him. "What?"

"You have blood on your face." Steve whispers. There's a knife in his throat. "And you're not bleeding, I don't think--"

"No," Billy says. 

And Steve doesn't know what it means. No, don't touch me. No, I'm alright. No, we're alright. _Clark and I are fine._ Steve lifts his fingers in a warning, giving Billy plenty of time to flinch back before wiping at the line of red hiding his freckles from view. 

Steve loves those freckles more than anything else in this life.

Billy struggles against the touch for a moment and then he presses into the warmth of Steve's palm, like a flower bending with the sun.

"Clark would never hurt me." 

"Then why do you have blood--"

"Jesus _Christ,_ Steve, I." Billy walks away from him. Toward the field and then back again, eyes glittering with fresh tears. Poorly concealed violence drips like paint from his fingernails as he works through something in his head. Finally, Billy chuckles.

"I threw a bottle of wine at the fireplace."

Which.

It's Valentines Day. The first one spent with his Fiancé instead of Steve, and. Billy chucked a bottle of wine at the fireplace because he was upset.

Hurt.

 _Clark_ made him upset, Clark made him act out, _Clark_ hurt him, and. The realization bubbles and puffs like sap dripping from a tree. Through decades and millennia, until:

"Why would you do that? I thought..you were excited to spend some time with him."

"I was."

"Then what are we _doing_ out here in the woods, man?" 

Billy stares into the thin line of trees, walking until his chest is pressed against blue metal. Steve turns to memorize the side of his face, the tears that well up and spill over, trickling down pink freckled cheeks to water something rotten and painful.

The night keeps getting stranger.

Twisting and morphing and bleeding while Steve tries to assign something to it. Meaning. Grief. But just when he has a handle on the night, just when he finds his footing, Billy's narrative changes all over again.

"I don't want to marry Clark." Billy says.

And.

It hits Steve like an Annville falling from the sky. He thinks maybe it's supposed to make him feel good. Happy, or whatever, that Billy doesn't want to marry that fucking guy, but.

It doesn't. 

"You. Decided all this tonight?" Steve asks, and.

Billy shakes his head, flipping around to face the field once more. He speaks slow and even, like the words take a lot of effort to force out. "I guess so."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah, I. Fucking guess."

Steve knows this is his fault.

Every colossal fucking train wreck of the last few weeks. Unlike a coal engine barreling off the tracks, however, Steve had the power to stop this. To realize something was wrong, or. _Off._ When he spoke to Billy on the phone yesterday. When they went to grab coffee last week.

When Billy brought over a stack of blue shirts, eyes lighting up at the way Steve pointed at the one with yellow flowers and said _that's it. I love it and he will too._ The way every word burnt like acid through his tongue, because. 

Steve has never been on board with the wedding.

Everyday since Clark proposed Steve could've done something to stop it, but instead.

He was selfish.

More tears roll down Billy's cheeks. "I just couldn't take it anymore. Clark made dinner, and like. Scattered flowers on the mattress. Bought me gifts and jewelry because he wanted the night to be fucking _special,_ and like. It was alright. We were having a good time, but--"

"But what?"

Billy takes a deep breath, brow wrinkling against a sob.

Steve wants to pull him close. Hold Billy's hand like that night when he told the truth about Neil and the shit he went home to everyday. Steve has only ever seen Billy cry like this twice in all the years they've been friends, and he's reliving something heavy and dark when Billy scrubs at his eyes before clearing his throat. Turning to face Steve with this _look_ on his face, like.

He' trying to memorize something that's already gone.

"He told me I can't see you anymore." Billy says roughly. "Clark, he. Said if we're going to have a happy marriage I can't talk to you again after tonight."

Steve.

Has never wanted to beg for anything more in his life, has never. Had the wind knocked out of him with a turn of phrase. Billy is holding a dagger to his heart, poised to kill and Steve, just. Smiles. Softly, easily, because as much as his heart is trying to crawl its way up his throat and light itself on fire, he just.

Understands.

Bleeds. Passes like a stone in the sea, but.

"I want you to be happy."

It's the truth.

"Steve--"

"If that means we can't." Steve looks toward the ground. To Billy's ratty black boots that have left footprints all over his life. The road to his heart is mucky and used, and. No good, anymore. Anyone who tries to walk a mile in those shoes will fall flat. Two-dimensional and wicked, and just.

No one could ever compare to Billy.

Steve sniffs, clearing his throat against the slide of nine years. "Look, I don't want you to feel like I'm gonna hate you or something."

Billy's crying. "Steve--"

"I understand, okay?" Steve hates when he cries. "Anything you asked, I'd. Do it for you. Anything, and. I understand." 

"Steve, would you just--"

"I'm not going to make you choose me, because. Dude, I just. Want you to be happy." Steve chuckles. Thick and wet, like drops of summer rain. He runs both hands through his hair, tugging and pulling to keep from floating away. "That's all I've ever wanted, like. In my whole stupid fucking life, Bills, I just. Want to see you smile."

He looks up, into. Oceans of blue. Mountains of gold.

And that's another truth.

Hard and rocky, like a path made of stone. 

Steve has searched for Billy's footprints in the way Clark brushes his fingers through blonde curls, rings catching and tugging strands spun of gold. Steve has studied their hidden smiles, the trail of Billy's lips against flesh and bone. Steve has searched and looked past what was already there, because. Maybe he didn't want it to be true. Couldn't believe it was, or _is,_ and.

Steve feels like he's on fire, or maybe. 

The world is.

"I know that you, uh." Steve bites down on the inside of his cheek. Tastes blood, swallows it down. "I know that you love him." He wants to track the flame, but.

Billy reaches for him.

Tries to pull him through the smoke. 

"I love _you."_ Billy says softly.

Steve takes a deep breath, willing the dam in his chest to hold its ground. He grips at Billy with both hands, his lifeline in the storm.

"What?" 

"I love you, Steve."

He doesn't really understand the weight of it. What Billy means, what the word represents but there are fingers in his hair, nevertheless. Blue eyes drifting like fallen snow over the curve of his cheeks. Steve holds onto Billy's wrists, keeping his hands where they are. Thinks he's never seen anyone look at him the way Billy does, like.

Spring has sprung.

Billy smiles softly. "I love you. I'm. I'm _in_ love with you, Steve."

Which.

"I can't live without you, dumbass." Billy says thickly. His hands grow impossibly tighter around the swell of Steve's neck. "I can't."

Steve shakes his head. "What about Clark?"

"You and I are a packaged deal."

"But what about--"

Billy yanks Steve forward. "I'm not giving you up. Clark, he's. A great guy and all that. He's funny and sweet, almost _too_ sweet sometimes, like. I think I got a few cavities here and there--"

"Alright, I get it."

"Okay." Billy's so serious. Eyes half lidded and deep like the sea. "He was everything I thought I wanted."

Steve feels like the wind got knocked out of him.

He pulls away, out of the circle of Billy's arms.

"We can't do this," He says, because. "This is _insane,_ you're getting married in two months."

Billy looks like Steve hauled off and punched him, but.

He doesn't say anything.

Steve breathes. That's all he can do.

Nine years. Steve has felt it for nine years, and he. Always thought.

Maybe Steve always believed, or. _Wanted--_

He shakes his head, backing away.

Dangerous thoughts better left where they are. Buried in the ground.

"Let me change your tire, alright? Let me change it for you and then you can go home. Apologize or something." Steve tries to round the edge of the car but Billy clings helplessly to him, following wherever Steve goes. 

"Stop." Billy says fiercely.

His eyes are wild, two blue holes in the atmosphere devouring life as they know it. Steve struggles when Billy holds onto him again. Fingers and forearms and shoulders and neck. Two thick fingers wiping tears away.

"Billy--"

"Steve, baby, _stop."_

The word feels like. 

Falling into a black hole.

For nine years, Steve has only ever wanted--

"We can't do this." He sobs, thick and wet, snot dribbling down his chin even as he clings again to Billy's wrists. "I can't let you do this. You love him."

"I love _you."_ Billy insists.

"No you don't." Steve pushes out of his hold once more.

And it all feels ridiculous. Dramatic and ridiculous and _unbelievable_ that Billy is looking into his eyes and insisting that--

"I wouldn't survive it, Stevie. Never seeing you again or hearing you laugh at some stupid fucking T.V. show, not hearing about your week over a slice of pizza, not seeing your ridiculous turtlenecks when it gets chilly outside--"

"Bills--"

"Just the _thought_ of it had me shaking so hard I couldn't stand, do you get that?" Billy runs his fingers through his hair, laughing low and dangerous. "I thought I was gonna pass out. Steve, when he said that it felt like the clouds were parting. It was so easy, to give it all away, to just fucking. _Throw in the towel._ Clark has made me happy, but. Two years with him is nothing."

Billy steps forward, trapping Steve by the neck once more. "It's _nothing_ compared to everything you've given me."

Steve can't do this.

He can't let Billy _do_ this. It's just cold feet, right? All grooms get cold feet but that's what Best Men are for. Steve gently detangles himself from Billy's hold, probably for the last time. He clings Billy's hand's, though.

His fingers, his wrists.

Squeezing and pulling and promising that: "You're getting your happy ending, Bills. The fucking. _Fairytale._ Alright, you're--"

Billy kisses him.

It's rough at first. Like a competition, like trying to prove a point. There's teeth and tongue, Billy's scruff rubbing a rash against Steve's chin and Steve feels his lip catch and tear roughly on something sharp. He tries to pull away, dropping his hold on Billy only to be reeled back in by a hand around his neck, an arm around his waist, pulling Steve through the cool night air until Billy's chest pins him to the side of the Camaro.

The kiss changes after that.

Billy deepens the moment, parting Steve's lips and speaking words into existence. Phrases that transcend everything Steve has ever felt, anything he's ever heard. Billy kisses like he needs Steve to understand. Like there has never been another outcome, another ending, to their story.

It's over too soon.

Billy pulls away He kisses Steve once more on the mouth, chaste and quick, peppering a few more on his cheeks and forehead, before pulling back to smile. It feels like the final scene in a movie, or something, the way his grin fills Steve with sunlight.

"You've no idea how long I've wanted to do that." Billy says.

And. The air has been sucked from Steve's lungs. "Think I have an idea."

Billy kisses him again. 

Just as deep, just as hard, before pulling away. Steve feels himself chasing it. Chasing Billy, and like.

He always was. Forever.

Steve frowns. "You love me?"

"Yes." Billy whispers. 

"Where is this coming from?"

Billy thinks about it for a moment. "I don't know." He says finally, pushing his way to mouth at Steve's neck. "Right in front of me. Right under my fucking nose."

Steve snorts, sighing when Billy kisses just below his ear. "You're impulsive."

"Maybe." Billy says thoughtfully. "Or I'm just. Waking up."

And.

Yeah.

It feels just like that.

**Author's Note:**

> Hopefully they got the tire changed?
> 
> Who the heck knows.


End file.
